Archive for politics

Big Machine

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 6, 2020 by dc

Skin creased all bitter and citric,
Pity painted to the soles of their feet,
Chewed fingers and a lurch as they walk,
Unsteady and ignorant,

Faces sculpted from mashed potato,
Words mushed into one long sound,
Tobacco tans and eyes like the holes
In punched walls;

Someone gave them a voice,
Someone said we should listen,

And now the idiots are oiling the big machine,
Greasing its wheels and buffing its bonnet,
Adding spoilers and flags and freestyling,

The acid reflux of racism revs,
The manual gears of science and fact
Are now automatic lies and distractions,

The truth got so boring it fell off
To sit and rust at the side of a road,

And now we’re here giving time to the fumes
Of greed and hate fogged up to look like
A floating green aurora offering hope,

A beautiful mirage that echoes their anger,
Whispering excuses and offering answers
To the weak and paranoid questions
Rotting at the base of their souls;

They don’t really have goals anymore,
Just a hungry desire to burn things
And have a huge barbecue in the aftermath,

Then after that one long wrestling match
And an anthem that celebrates death.

If only they could take a breath and a look,
Read a book and cuddle up to something other than fear,

Maybe then we wouldn’t be here
And that big machine could just disappear.

December 2019

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 1, 2020 by dc

We watched the truth
Get twisted and contorted
Like sausage-shaped balloons,

A clown in the middle
Of a malformed circle,
Huffing and puffing,

Bending and stretching
A huge sack of facts

Until they reappeared
As small, lumpy mammals,

Floating and squeeking out
Rubbery mantras,

Just a single pin prick
Away from disaster.

Based On A True Story

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 13, 2019 by dc

In the corner of an old
Dilapidated mansion,
Two dusty mammals
Farted a thought into a jar,

They added spittle and pubes,
Skin cells and
Sunday roast meat cuts,
Then screwed the lid shut.

Nine months later,
Ripe with mould and strange spores
It was ready to wobble
And coagulate,

The large dirty jar
Could hold it no more,
It was born on a table,
Laid out for just one,

It wriggled and winked,
Fumbled and strayed,
It stained all the linen
And roamed round the fruit bowl,

It emanated
Stuttered grumbles,
Guttural pops and loosened burps,
Squelching as it evolved.

Keepers came to watch it,
They whispered ideas
And trained it to move
And gesticulate,

They rolled the pink blob
Through a mound of fine cloth,
Whispered mantras in Latin
And taught it to talk,

They gave it anything it desired,
They plumped all its pillows
And said they loved all
Its drawings and endless random questions.

Its childhood was a painting,
Its adolescence was a film,
Its twenties spawned a dozen kids
And its thirties spoke of doom,

By its forties it was destined
To shuffle to the top,
And now its fifties sing the hollowed croon
Of a mistake we cannot stop;

And it’s only now we ruminate,
Sat underneath a painting
Of that old nameless mansion
And the creations it used to house,

Powerless by request,
Confused and all full of regret,
Fretting over the future
As we shift like silhouettes,

We connect and rhyme in shifts,
Drift then slowly moan,
Waiting for the next jar
To steal the old blob’s throne.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 24, 2016 by dc

It should never have happened,
Say what you will,

As we wallow in confusion
On the flip side of great,

Blaming the shattered glass
On the pavement,

And the distant
Shuffling shadows.

We sit here divided and broken,
Screaming in the dark,

We snarl through
Disagreement’s spent spittle,

Wounded and angry,
Fighting fire with fire,

Hope burning on the roadside,
Faith lolling out of sight.

The Rotten Anomaly

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on June 8, 2016 by dc

He’s a mime at a picnic,
A whispering quiff,
A hidden side effect,

The breath mint spinning
Duplicitous smiles.

He trims and moisturises,
Illustrates and rhymes,

He’s the rotten anomaly,
He’s cufflinks when buttons will do.

He does the echo Jesus walk,
Slips wisdom into cocktails
And wrestles history,

He’s the tailored suit on Fridays,
An eloquence well trained.

He starts the jokes at functions,
His punch lines are telegraphed,

He’s the something that nothing once mustered
And his handshakes are falsified facts.

Into The Echoes

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 12, 2016 by dc

He walked the usual miles,
Shook all the right hands,
Made the expected sacrifices,
Ticked every box,
Spoke with eloquence and wit,
Whispered honesty where possible
And painted smiles across his face
When all the world seemed slathered
In mockery and disdain.

He climbed the mountains,
Thanked the people
Who helped him get there,
Devoted respect to the pioneers
And kissed the cheeks
Of the dreamers and sycophants,
The liars and thieves,
Hoping the happiness he’d sown
Would thrive in his new sunshine.

He sat at the top of the world,
Sucked up air intended to calm him,
Broke bread and cracked eggs,
Tried singing songs into the echoes
And praised all who ever doubted him,
Questioned the moments
That had brought him here,
Lay his head on the rocks
And just stared at the sky,

So this is politics.

The Possibilities Of Defeat

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on April 5, 2015 by dc

The spotlight fell,

He had a chance
To say something different,

An opportunity to sing
And hear others sing along;

It seemed like one of those
‘Just add water and stir’ moments,

Sweat glistened on his forehead
Like the promise of fame

Was lighting it’s hearth
And sidling in for the kill,

Hiding cackles
In the crackles
Of the fire,

Raising hackles,
Rattling shackles,
He was wired.

The crowd drew in breaths
And sat hungry,

But his first words were forced
And he choked,

His lips looked dry
And his eyes twitched,

He had the greatest speech
The crowd had ever heard,

But his tie sat all wonky
And his hair was absurd.

(It looked like a half destroyed ship
Rocking itself back to life
In a storm).

It was gone,
That one moment,
That sweet chance to shine.

He even asked for a re- take
As the live cameras climbed

Higher and higher
Till there was nothing but ceiling,

The old paintwork peeling
Above this new death.

We Caught Them Braying

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on January 26, 2015 by dc

We caught them braying,
But they weren’t donkeys,
Or horses or ponies or mules,


They were the chosen ones,
The elected,

And we tried to play along;

Instead of riding them,
We fed them,

And instead of saddling them up,
We stroked them and whispered
Sweet nothings and old folk songs,

We told them everything
Was going to be okay,

We reassured them,
Built up their confidence
And patted their rumps,

We never fenced them in fields,

We let them run free.

I digress.

We caught them braying

And it sounded
Like death’s angry corpse
Rattling and plotting revenge,

A huge rage of neighing,
A holler almighty
And a hideous roar burning wild.

All we ever did was feed them
And tell them they were clever,

Now I’m certain
They’d like us
All gone

Election Result

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 7, 2010 by dc

And in the false prophet’s mouth
They found a huge black toad.

It talked to them too,

“I came here to find warts,
I came here for you”.

It spoke with a passion
Not heard round these parts,

It quivered when poked
And smelt of hot farts.

Sofa Voter

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 6, 2010 by dc

The fact that X marks the spot
Never fails to disenfranchise me,

Where’s the grand prize draw?
And why are we helping these pirates?